


Are Made For Walking

by atmilliways



Series: And That's Just What They'll Do [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Aziraphale has a Plan, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale says Don't Feed Ducks Bread (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Bodyswap, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Hellfire used, Holy Water used, Implied/Referenced Sex, Multi, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Recipe included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways
Summary: Aziraphale has had a lot on his mind lately. It’s not that retirement isn’t for him—he’s rather enjoying using the extra free time to keep up maintenance on his book collection via human methods, rather than all miracles all the time. It’s just that, well… falling out of favor with Heaven comes with some uncomfortable downsides, and a new and all-consuming concern has him rather on edge.Or, the real reason Aziraphale told Crowley to “stop lurking underfoot, there’s a good chap” inThese Snakeskin Boots.(Anathema's brunch recipe included at the end.)
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device/ Crowley (Good Omens)/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: And That's Just What They'll Do [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573864
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	1. A Monday in May, 7 Months Ago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adenil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/gifts).



> Huge thanks to everyone who read this over for me and giving helpful comments—including Lurlur for Brit-picking, walkwithursus for general merriment, quiet_or_die for making the words and punctuation work good, and D20Owlbear for encouragement and help with the recipe at the end of the fic.
> 
> Happy Holidays to Adenil! The last prompt was Dark!Aziraphale. I'm not sure I quite got to dark, but here's some Aziraphale in a funk followed by Aziraphale being a bit of a BAMF. Hope you enjoy!

Even after so much time among them, Aziraphale had never understood humans’ aversion to Mondays. It was a relatively modern sort of attitude—or at least, he had never noticed it much back in the days of learning to gavotte in his discreet gentlemen’s club. But as the proverbial hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as well as the ethereal feathers on his tucked-away wings, he was beginning to get an idea. 

“Aziraphale!” boomed a familiar voice. “How goes the selling of material receptacles of human knowledge?”

Since his back was currently to the door of the shop, Aziraphale allowed himself a brief wince and silently sent a wordless prayer of thanks that Crowley hadn’t yet come by for the day. Not that it should be as much of a problem since the Apocalypse had failed to come about and both Heaven and Hell had made it quite clear that they’d gotten wind of the Arrangement. And while, yes, they had known the respite that the body swapping stunt had bought them wouldn’t last forever, Aziraphale had assumed—hoped, prayed—that it would have bought them more time than this. 

He wasn’t sure if the lack of customers in the shop was also a stroke of good luck, or just meant there wouldn’t be any witnesses. Not that they would be any help, should anything happen. . . .

“Ah, Gabriel,” he said, turning. It was so easy to fall back on old habits, and the familiar subdued yet attentive smile of one who hadn’t really been looking forward to speaking to their boss for the first time since, for example, before the weekend was already plastered across Aziraphale’s face. _Mondays_. “It’s going just fine, thank you. How is . . . everything in Heaven?”

“Much better, now that you’re not visiting it,” the archangel replied bluntly. There was a steely glint in Gabriel's violet eyes that did not exactly convey a message of _be not afraid_. 

Aziraphale’s polite smile faltered for only an instant, but it was a chink in his armor and both of them knew it. Being left alone by Heaven was one thing; being talked to with such derision by one of its most prominent leaders was quite another. 

The pitcher’s worth of water caught him squarely in the face, falling in gushes and rivulets and dribbles down his coat and waistcoat. He gasped, tasted the Holiness of it slip onto his tongue as if in aggressive communion, blinked repeatedly to clear his eyes— 

It did not burn, yet anxiety washed over him after the fact like a second wave. The fact that his Grace was still intact hadn’t stopped him from worrying behind a poker face down in Hell, when he’d stepped into a bathtub of the Holy Water wearing Crowley’s skin, either. Meanwhile, Gabriel must have assumed that the failure to mete out punishment with Hellfire had a simple corollary: an angel that cannot be harmed that way must have Fallen, and could therefore be sentenced to elimination by Holy Water instead.

Belatedly, his thoughts flew to the jar of Hellfire that had been sitting untouched in a locked and warded cabinet in his back room ever since Crowley had told him about Gabriel’s _Just shut up, and die already._ And, of course, Crowley had instantly understood his need for insurance as soon as he’d asked. 

By the time Aziraphale has gathered his wits enough to wipe his eyes properly, the bell over the front door was already sounding the archangel’s retreat.They had known each other for thousands of years and yet, Gabriel had sought to end them. 

And it hadn’t worked. 

Dazedly miracling up a handkerchief to dab at his face and clothes, Aziraphale stumbled to the nearest armchair and sank into it. When he opened his mouth a cracked, hysterical little laugh tumbled out, so he snapped it shut again. Gabriel had failed, but now that the initial shock was beginning to ebb, a more insidious dread was wrapping tightly around his heart. 

If Crowley had been at the shop, he would have tried to protect him. He would have been _destroyed._

Aziraphale took a deep breath, steeling himself. Throughout the ages it had generally been Crowley protecting him—from beheading-happy revolutionaries, from double-dealing Nazis, from the wrath of Satan at Tadfield Airbase. It was time to return the favor, to stand to the step and be a proper Guardian again, only this time not of any silly gate, but of his best friend. Which meant not letting on what had happened and keeping the demon out of harm’s way. 

At the next opportunity, he would have to find some excuse to discourage Crowley from lurking around the shop quite so much, for his own good.


	2. A Monday in July, 5 Months Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retired angels need hobbies too.

Aziraphale was a touch lonely these days. 

For the past few months, Crowley had been coming by less frequently, which was probably for the best. But on some occasions it felt as though the demon was intentionally avoiding him. Just last week Aziraphale had invited him to come along to a clever little street market he’d heard of that was only held on Tuesdays. Crowley had said he was busy, planning to be out of town, in fact, might be for the whole day, and that the angel should go on without him. Aziraphale had then, on a whim, taken a detour on his way back to the shop to drop off a small serpent statuette he’d thought Crowley might like—only to see the Bentley parked at the curb in front of his flat. Closing his eyes and expanding his angelic senses for a moment had told him that not only was Crowley still in London, he was actually at home. He had _lied_. 

It was probably absurd to feel hurt about that, given that Aziraphale was being less than open about his own affairs. So he made due with puttering about the shop, striking up actual conversations with the occasional customer.

Like the one he was talking to at the moment, who was earnestly attempting to explain that all the books in the shop were so well preserved that she’d thought there _must_ be a restoration expert on staff, and couldn’t she perhaps borrow their services on a freelance basis to mend the binding of some in her own collection?

“I’m afraid I don’t have a staff, per se,” Aziraphale told her gently, but firmly. ( _I’m not a shepherd, you see._ He would have to remember to tell Crowley the joke in an anecdote next time they met. Crowley would laugh, or possibly groan, but either way end up amused.) “It’s only me.”

“Please,” the woman continued, despite his efforts at deterrence. “You _have_ to help, the books were my grandmother’s, and the way they’re falling to pieces just breaks my heart. And even if I wanted to replace them, I don’t know where I’d ever be able to find copies of the same editions. . . .”

The emotion in the woman’s voice gave Aziraphale pause. He was meant to be on Earth to help humanity, and he did try his best. Ignoring such distress just wasn’t in his nature. 

“Other than here, maybe,” she added, suddenly thoughtful. 

It occurred to him very quickly, then, that she had a point. People who had their books repaired had no need of purchasing a replacement. Which meant, in turn, that they might have less cause to come to his shop expecting to actually buy one. In fact, restoring books the long way rather than by miracles was a small but enjoyable hobby of his, and it would be just as well to put it to good use, since he would absolutely prefer doing that over actually parting with any of his own volumes. 

He smiled. “Why, you know, now that I think of it, I might just be able to find some spare time in my schedule. Perhaps if you can tell me more about the books in question. . . . ?”

It was too much to hope that doing good works would discourage Heaven from bothering him again, but it certainly couldn’t hurt, and it would give him something to do while he waited for things to turn out.


	3. A Monday in September, 3 Months Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever noticed that demons tend to wear their hair (or wigs) with more volume than angels do? Maybe that's why Aziraphale asked "Still a demon then?" in Rome.

There had been no further visits or word from Gabriel or Heaven, and Aziraphale was starting to feel that his gentle admonition for Crowley to stop lurking underfoot had been taken a bit too close to heart. This was, he knew, because as time passed since the attempt on his life his caution was beginning to lessen. It was terribly soft of him, and something he absolutely must guard against. 

What he _needed_ was a plan. Since the visit from Gabriel he had taken certain defensive precautions that might warn him of possible attacks, but they weren’t infallible, and the longer he remained in this state of sustained suspense the jumpier he felt. What he _needed_ was to go on the defensive, somehow. Perhaps he could . . . But then . . . Or maybe . . . 

So far he’d had exactly zero worthwhile ideas. 

The bell above the shop door sounded, jolting Aziraphale out of his thoughts. His head jerked up instantly, craning around a bookshelf to see who it was, and let out a held breath as soon as he caught sight of red hair. “Oh, Crowley, it’s you. Just a moment, let me extract myself from . . .” His mind caught up with what his eyes had noticed, and he paused. “Are you growing your hair out?”

“Yeah, just a sudden whim I had,” Crowley replied breezily, then added something under his breath. 

“I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t quite catch that last part.”

“Nothing important. Ready for lunch?”

Aziraphale, who only _suspected_ that what Crowley had muttered was _Forty days and forty nights ago_ but wasn’t sure, gave him a hesitant smile. “Yes, ah, of course. Let me just get my coat.”

Throughout the ride to the restaurant, Aziraphale kept looking to his right. Now that he’d noticed, he couldn’t understand how his eyes hadn’t immediately caught on Crowley’s hair. The last time he’d seen it so far past the demon’s shoulders had been. . . . Well, before they’d had oysters together in Rome, that was for certain. It looked nice short, of course, but when it grew long it fell in burnished red waves. And these days, with advancements and standards in hair care taken into account (regardless of whether Crowley used all the shampoos and conditioners and various other modern products, or merely expected it to look as though he did), it looked so soft that he ached with a longing to reach out and touch. 

Only centuries of practice kept Aziraphale from doing just that. It simply wouldn’t be right for them to become closer now, when he had a flaming sword of Damocles hanging over his head by the single thread of Gabriel’s whim. He still had yet to come up with some sort of contingency plan beyond _expect the unexpected_. 

Crowley parked, turned off the car, and glanced over to catch him staring. “Want to take picture?” the demon asked, quirking an eyebrow. “It’ll last longer.”

“Technically, you’ll last longer than any physical picture, my dear,” Aziraphale replied primly. If he had anything to say about it, at least. “But,” he added, softening a bit, “you are quite striking with the longer hair. I’ve always thought it was a good look on you.” One that could only be improved upon by being windswept, but it was such a short drive that neither of them had bothered to roll down the windows.

A second eyebrow rose to the level of the first. “Yeah? You have?”

“Oh yes, of course.” He thinks back to that Roman bar again, guarding against a nostalgic smile that kept threatening to rise to his face. “It was quite a surprise the first time I saw you with close-cropped hair. I almost didn’t realize it was you. Not that you didn’t look dashing either way, you understand, but the drama of long locks suits you very well.”

Never one for accepting compliments with good grace (because, after all, he _was_ a demon, he didn’t have _any_ Grace), Crowley gave an awkward shrug and said something that sounded like, “Nnng.”

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and opened the car door. “Shall we?”

The awkward moment passed, swept under the rug like so many others, and they both felt quite on firmer footing by the time they were seated and listening to the daily specials.


	4. A Tuesday in December

There are many back ways into Heaven, subtle doors and passageways that could be taken without fanfare so that one’s arrival might go largely unnoticed. Aziraphale knows them all. 

He takes the main entrance. 

There are security measures in place, of course. When Crowley-wearing-his-body had been snatched up to Heaven, the gates had opened in response to the Grace of his captors. Aziraphale, even wearing a corporation that’s housed a demon for the better part of six thousand years, still has enough Grace to trip the sensor and be granted admittance. 

It’s what they get for automating their security. 

No one is in the entry hall where most of his meetings with the archangels used to take place. He hesitates here, starts to wring his hands nervously, and stops when the gauntness of them reminds him of why he is here. 

Ever since swapping bodies earlier this morning, Aziraphale has been worrying that he’s come because of an unangelic desire for revenge. Gabriel had written him off as so forsaken that he could be harmed by Holy Water, and the bare fact of that was more hurtful than the attack had actually been—an attack not on his person, exactly, but on his _character_. As if Gabriel didn’t know him at all, had never bothered to learn or try to understand his fellow angel. As if Aziraphale had never been _worth it_. 

That hurt is still there. But as he looks down at Crowley’s hands, he’s more certain than ever that the real reason he’s here is more virtuous than that. He can’t bear the thought of an existence without Crowley there to make biting but insightful comments and keep things interesting and hand him a bag full of books rescued not because the demon valued them, but because Aziraphale did. For whatever reason, Crowley had looked upon him on the wall of Eden and seen something worth . . . _worth_. And he’d never asked for anything in return—Well, that wasn’t precisely true, he’d asked the world of Aziraphale by asking him to help save it. But Crowley had never asked more of him than Aziraphale had been willing to give—Except for once, in the park, but that had been a misunderstanding. And one other time, in the Bentley, under the wash of red lights, and he’d looked so _heartbroken_ when Aziraphale had demurred, albeit as gently as the angel had known how. Just thinking about that makes Aziraphale’s heart ache. 

There is no acceptable course but to come out of this alive, intact, and with his best and truest friend in all of Creation safe. For the sake of _Our Side_ , and for everything they might yet have the chance to be for each other. That’s his reason for doing this, pure as the driven snow. 

Aziraphale sidles through the bright white hallways, using the reflective surfaces of Crowley’s sunglasses in one hand as a mirror to peer cautiously past corners before stealing around them, until he reaches Gabriel’s office. 

He’s inside the room and warding the door locked—or, more accurately, into becoming a wall for the time being—before Gabriel even looks up from his paperwork. 

“Yes, what can I— _You_.”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale replies steadily in Crowley’s voice. “Me.”


	5. A Monday in November, 1 Month Ago

The answer, or the seed of one, came to Aziraphale one drizzly winter afternoon. He was taking a stroll through St. James’s Park—doing his part to remind would-be duck feeders that bread actually wasn’t good for them and handing out miraculously pre-made baggies of peas, corn, and rolled oats to toss instead—when he caught sight of a gangly figure off in the distance. 

Upon a second look he could clearly see that it wasn’t Crowley, as part of him had eagerly hoped. No, it was just some ordinary human wrapped up in a raincoat and wellies, smoking a desultory cigarette under the dubious cover of some trees. Aziraphale was just about to turn and head back towards the bookshop when he saw the man cast the cigarette down and slouch off to not-be-Crowley somewhere else, not bothering to stub it out or even step on it with his wet boots. 

_How depressing,_ Aziraphale reflected, _that the youth of this world are so concerned about the environment and the state of the planet they have no other course but to inherit responsibility for, and yet they all seem to grow up into the same attitudes of careless indifference in time. I wonder sometimes if we did the right thing by not haring off to Alpha Centauri, I really do._ With a sigh, the angel changed course and went to make sure it was put out and thrown away properly. 

The discarded cigarette was smouldering gently away on the pathway, surrounded by litter from the surrounding trees and bushes that wouldn’t last a fraction as long but were still just dry enough to be considered kindling. With a downward flick of one finger Aziraphale threaded a particularly large raindrop through the evergreen needles and branches above, aiming for the glowing spot of ember before anything could catch. 

As water hit fire with a sizzle, the idea hit him with the force of a carelessly driven lorry. 

He had a jar of Hellfire. And he could make Holy Water as needed, at a moment’s notice if need be so long as the proper prayers had been made and rites (i.e. boiling the Hell out of it) observed in advance. No angel or demon could produce both, but with the proper sleight of hand. . . . 

_It might work,_ he thought elatedly. The jar was fairly small, though he wouldn’t need much—he didn’t want to destroy Gabriel, just injure him slightly and discourage future interference from Heaven in Aziraphale and Crowley’s affairs. Convince everyone once and for all that they were untouchable in ways that only God Herself could understand. 

Just as quickly, though, he deflated. If he went after Gabriel with Hellfire, it would just appear to be the simple retaliation of a falling angel. No, it would be far more impressive if it were a demon summoning Hellfire and subsequently summoning Holy Water to quench it, and Aziraphale was still dead-set against Crowley becoming involved in any of this mess. 

With another sigh, Aziraphale bent, tossed the cigarette butt in the nearest bin, and turned towards Soho. The only way to execute the plan would be if he could somehow borrow Crowley’s body for a few hours without answering any of the inevitable questions or arousing the demon’s suspicions that something was going on. 

And what were the chances of that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no dialogue in this chapter. . . . Weird.


	6. A Tuesday in December (continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMOKE BOMB!!

The wariness in the archangel’s expression is promising for the success of the plan, and also one Aziraphale has never seen there before because he’s never inspired it in his own right. Gabriel pushes back from his desk slightly but makes no attempt, yet, to stand. 

“The demon Crowley,” he says in a low, tight voice that Aziraphale has also never heard. “I suppose that explains why I didn’t hear a knock.”

“Funny,” Aziraphale-as-Crowley retorts smoothly, “I think the only thing that announced your arrival in Aziraphale’s bookshop a few months ago was the bell over the door. Did you even give him the time to finish turning around before trying to kill him?” 

Gabriel doesn’t flinch. “Aziraphale is no longer of Heaven. I don’t know how he’s managed to protect himself against divine punishment, but nothing that can withstand Hellfire is welcome here.”

Behind his back, Aziraphale palms the small jar inside Crowley’s sleeve. It could very well be one of Warlock’s old baby food jars from the demon’s nannying days—he’d never thought to ask. The glass feels unpleasantly warm in his hand. 

“Is that supposed to be a hint?” He tucks the sunglasses into a pocket with his free hand, letting Gabriel see yellow eyes flickering with a righteous fury. “A thinly veiled ‘get out of my office, or else’? If I’m not supposed to be here, She would’ve struck me down long before I got this far.”

“You’re not—”

“I heard what you said to him at that so-called trial,” Aziraphale interrupts, stalking closer. “‘Just hurry up, and die already.’” He tsks, shaking his head in a mockery of disappointment. 

And this is where Crowley’s snakelike reflexes truly come in handy; in an instant, he makes it around the desk, swivels Gabriel’s stupid, gray-with-lavender-accents executive chair around to face him, and slams a hand against the archangel’s chest to keep him in place. He leans over Gabriel, who shrinks subtly back into the chair. Aziraphale has never seen his former supervisor scared before, and it’s a heady sight to take in. Firmly, he reminds himself of what Crowley, after much pressing, had admitted: when he’d lost his temper a bit and spat fire at the assembled Archangels, Gabriel had stepped protectively forward to shield them. For that, Aziraphale feels he has slightly less sin to smite for—even if it does make Gabriel’s other callousness feel more _personal_. 

Underneath the cool veneer simmers a righteous anger, not on his own behalf—though he does feel the sting of it, relegated firmly to the background—but because whether they knew it or not, those things had been said to _Crowley_. His precious Crowley, who per the Arrangement has probably done more good on Earth over the past few millennia than Gabriel, Mr. _Not My Department_ , has probably bothered to. 

“I always thought you lot were above that kind of pettiness,” Aziraphale continues venomously, “but I guess not. So.” 

He holds up the jar of Hellfire and unscrews the lid while Gabriel, still too slow with disbelief to act, stares. 

“Walk a few miles in his ssshoes,” Aziraphale tells him, playing up the sort of satisfied smirk he knows Crowley would have. It’s the exact kind of punishment the demon would have come up with, he’s sure—his beautiful demon who doesn’t tempt so much as set up the situation and let’s the target draw their own conclusions, take their own steps, make their own hell. Forcing a little empathy on Gabriel so that he might reflect on his actions in a new light is perfectly on brand. 

He tips the jar and a few embers of Hellfire shake loose, catching with a blaze of light and heat and a sound like _whoomph_ as soon as they touch the thigh of Gabriel’s trousers. Right where, on his own ethereal form, an old wound from the Great War before Eden was even a gleam in the Almighty’s eye still plagues him. 

Gabriel _screams_ ; it’s loud and pained and makes a part of Aziraphale cringe in empathy, but even if it shows in his face the archangel is beyond noticing for the time being. 

An instant later, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and Holy Water patters down like rain from the ceiling, extinguishing the blaze and leaving only a greasy, evil smoke hanging in the air. Elsewhere in Heaven, an alarm begins to sound.

“I trust you’ll leave us alone from now on,” Aziraphale says almost carelessly. He knows the words will be seared into Gabriel’s memory just as the injury is forever seared into his celestial flesh. Without waiting for a response, he palms something from the magic shop kitty corner to the bookshop from his other sleeve and throws it to the floor. 

The smoke bomb does its job, blending in with the hellish tint already in the air, as he makes his escape before the entire heavenly host can be assembled against him. This time, he takes a back way out.


	7. A Tuesday in December (continued again)

Upon returning to the bookshop, Aziraphale finds Crowley approximately where he’d been when he had left, with the addition of an empty mug of eggnog that smells suspiciously of brandy and some shortbread biscuit crumbs dusted over both the waistcoat and blanket. Apparently the snacking habits of Aziraphale’s body are difficult to break even for a temporary occupant. 

Crowley, apparently so used to indulging in naps that he’ll take them regardless of the body he’s in, is dozing, and Aziraphale is struck by the mildly embarrassing revelation that his body snores in its sleep. 

He watches for a moment but can’t bring himself to wake him, and turns aside to clear the empty mug and biscuit tin away. By the time he comes back Crowley is stretching, yawning, and blinking owlishly. “Is that me?” he mumbles in Aziraphale’s voice, and yawns again. “I mean, you?”

Aziraphale smiles. It feels odd on Crowley’s face, as though the muscles aren’t quite used to the exercise—although not so much as the last time he wore them, which is interesting. Suddenly he remembers that there was something Crowley had wanted to tell him . . . but it doesn’t seem likely that those things could be related, does it?

“It is,” he replies, and holds out a hand. “Shall we?”

Crowley crosses Aziraphale’s eyes in brief concentration, then reaches out to take it. 

They swap back. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in his own voice, and yawns. “My, I feel quite well rested, thank you my dear.”

“I feel like I’ve run a marathon,” Crowley complains, sitting up and crossing his legs under the blanket with a small grimace. “What were you up to, angel? How long have I been asleep?”

“Just a few hours,” Aziraphale assures him. He sits on the other end of the sofa and brushes fussily at the crumbs still on the blanket. Now that the time has come for the explanation he’d promised, all he can think to do is stall because . . . because what if Crowley doesn’t appreciate not being told what’s been going on for the past half of a year? What if that’s why he has been so obligingly avoiding spending time together?

As if hearing the anxious thought, Crowley gives an annoyed little huff. “Will you stop that for a minute?”

Aziraphale snatches his hands back and folds them in his lap. “Sorry.”

“Look,” Crowley says, and he sounds dreadfully serious. He also looks as though he’s seriously dreading something, which is puzzling. “There’s some . . . stuff I should probably tell you about.

For a moment, Aziraphale is worried Crowley is about to launch into a reproach for being held at arm’s length, or worse, accumulated bitterness over the many little rejections over the years. It does start out that way, a bit, causing the bottom to drop out of his stomach. 

Then Crowley explains about running into Newt, and helping with her transition because, hey, he’d presented as female for a while in the early ADs so obviously he knows a thing or two, and how one thing had eventually lead to another (though the details on why said things took that exact turn are somewhat vague), and. . . . 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. This time he doesn’t yawn afterwards. 

“Yeah.” Crowley has, over the course of the explanation, wound the blanket around himself so thoroughly that, with the thick fall of his long hair as he ducks his head, only slivers of his face are visible. “So . . . the whole two-by-two thing makes a bit more sense to me now.”

Maybe it comes from inhabiting Crowley’s body recently, maybe because the serious thing Crowley had wanted to tell him isn’t as dark as the serious thing that he himself still has to come clean about. . . . Aziraphale can’t help it. He raises an eyebrow, grinning slightly. “Or three-by-three?”

“Shut up.”

“I never would have guessed you didn’t already have, er, firsthand knowledge, so to speak.”

“A _zira_ phale,” Crowley whines from behind his hair. 

“Sorry dear, I was only teasing.” He pauses. “Is all this why you wanted me to make your decisions for you today?”

The blanket-and-hair-monster nods. 

“Are you . . . worried I would be upset with you for being intimate with them?”

There’s some weak sputtering, followed by another nod. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “you and I . . . Oh, how can I say this so clearly that there’s no room for misunderstanding?” He reaches out and brushes some of the hair out of the way so they can make proper eye contact. Crowley’s seem drawn to his as if by magnets, wide and nervous and hopeful. “There’s nothing that could ever truly come between us,” Aziraphale tells him softly but surely. “Not with all we’ve been through together.”

Crowley swallows, lets out a carefully held breath, nods a third time. “Okay. Okay, angel.”

“Is that all you were worried about, my dear?”

“Erm. . . .” Crowley chews on his lip. “Mostly. And also, it’s so _awkward_ now. I mean . . . what if they want to do it again?”

Aziraphale kindly pats what he thinks is probably a shoulder. Feels bony enough to be one, anyway. “You just have to decide whether or not you would like to repeat the experience, dear boy, and tell them your decision. And . . . if they don’t take it well, I’m sure you can think of some way to smooth things over, one way or another.”

Crowley peeks out at the hand on his shoulder, then at Aziraphale’s face. “You’re really not a, um. . . ?” He laughs nervously. “Not sure what word I’m looking for here.”

“I’m not exactly a saint either, Crowley.” Giving the shoulder one last reassuring squeeze, Aziraphale drops his hand and sighs. “Actually, there’s something I ought to tell _you_ about . . . what I’ve been up to today.”

Then he explains about Gabriel’s attempt on his life, and shooing Crowley from the bookshop for his own safety, and the sudden bolt of inspiration when the demon had made his proposal the night before. By the time he gets to the part about sauntering into Heaven and cornering Gabriel in his office, the blanket has slipped from Crowley’s limp grasp and his eyes are as wide as saucers. 

“You _what_?” he blurts out before the story is technically finished. 

“I took care of it,” Aziraphale says nervously. 

“You _burned_ the Archangel fucking _Gabriel_ with _Hellfire_ ” Crowley summarizes in disbelief. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

“Reckless? Wrathful? Not like me?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Aziraphale, it’s exactly like you. It’s _brilliant._ And . . . I mean, I’m not exactly ecstatic that you cut me out, but I get why you did. And, wow. You burned an archangel with Hellfire for _me_. Well, for us.”

“You,” Aziraphale corrects gently. 

“Oh.” Crowley blinks, a rare thing for his human form, a flush skulking across his face and down his neck. “For _me_. Wow. I guess . . . thanks.”

Aziraphale considers this reaction for a moment, wondering if he hasn’t been misunderstood after all despite his attempts at clarity. “Crowley. . . . Why were you so anxious about telling me about you and those humans?”

The agreement was that Aziraphale would make all of Crowley’s decisions until Big Ben finished chiming in the New Year. For a moment, he thinks that Crowley might safeword out of answering the question—the struggle over whether or not to do so is broadcast across his features, for those who know how to read him. And Aziraphale does. He’s made a study of it, just as he’s spent centuries trying to keep his hands out of the demon’s luxuriously soft hair, and succeeded, until earlier this very morning. Biting his lip against a breath and everything that Crowley means to him, Aziraphale waits. 

He can see the exact moment his best friend finally comes to a decision. 

“Because,” Crowley admits, “I thought . . . that you might be jealous.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale lets out the breath, then bites his lip again but for different reasons. 

“So . . . you really aren’t?” he asks, sounding as though he isn’t sure which answer he really wants to hear. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and now he _knows_ that he hasn’t been clear enough. The demon is still worried that a _no_ means he doesn’t care, rather than an admission of complete devotion no matter what. 

“Yeah?”

“In the interest of being very, _very_ clear, I’ve decided that you need to kiss me. Right n—”

The demon’s lips are on his before he can even finish the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Girls Night Crowley is appeased. God, what is it about these ineffable idiots?


	8. A Tuesday in January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story, as the next "chapter" is actually just the recipe Anathema mentions. It is, in fact, made up entirely for the purposes of this fic.

They meet in Crowley's flat for a potluck New Year’s brunch, because it’s the only space he hasn’t had sex in yet and is therefore still neutral. 

Earlier Aziraphale had listened to this reasoning with a straight face, because convincing Crowley to arrange the get-together in the first place had taken a lot of cajoling and reassurance, but privately he’s inclined to think that Crowley is overthinking it. From everything he’s by now heard, Newt and Anathema sound like reasonable human adults who were just trying to be helpful and teach an old demon new tricks, not so much asking for anything as . . . returning a favor. 

The knock at the front door sends Crowley leaping into action after a morning of fidgeting and pacing; as soon as he opens it he’s all sardonic smirk and effortless cool. Aziraphale watches in muted fascination, as he’s never had a backstage view of this transformation before. That Crowley is letting him see it now suffuses him with a warm, bubbly feeling from head to toe.

“Hey humans,” Crowley is saying, nodding to them as they come in. “Newt. Book Girl. You remember Aziraphale, yeah?”

The angel remembers himself and steps forward to shake hands. “Hello,” he singsongs, “so nice to see you both again. And I’d really like to thank you for encouraging Crowley and teaching him a thing or two, it’s really all come in quite useful.”

Newt blushes mid handshake, while behind her Anathema is trying valiantly to hide an amused smile. Since the latter’s hands are full with the covered dish they’ve brought for the brunch, she gives Aziraphale air kisses on both cheeks. 

Crowley, meanwhile, pretends not to have heard that for the sake of his dignity. He relieves Newt of the champagne bottle she’s carrying and stalks off to put it to chill, calling back over his shoulder, “All right you lot, make yourselves comfortable. First movie starts in ten.”

“What’s the lineup?” Newt asks loudly, obviously relieved by the change of subject and trailing after him towards the living room. 

“Anaconda, Anaconda 2, and then Anaconda 3 if we’re up for a third.”

Anathema stifles a laugh, falling more or less in step with Aziraphale as they follow. “You’re welcome, by the way. And I can’t believe I invented a popcorn french toast casserole recipe for a bunch of silly action horror movies,” she confides with an arch twinkle in her eye. 

“I’m sure it’s scrumptious,” Aziraphale says happily. After all, he’s more here for moral support and the food than the feature films. “Do you know, I never used to be able to watch any kind of cinema or television with Crowley because that was how Hell would often check in on him.”

“So you’re just now learning that he has ridiculous taste in them?”

“ _I can hear you_ ,” Crowley yells from the kitchen while Aziraphale titters in amusement. 

And everything is fine. There’s certainly enough food: the casserole, plus deviled eggs, rashers of bacon, crepes with various sauces and fruits for toppings, and slices of angel food cake. Plenty of champagne. Crowley and Newt are intent on watching the movies, even though they clearly don’t take them very seriously. In the background, Anathema tells Aziraphale all about how much her mother disapproves of Newt—not because of the transition, she explains, but because of hereditary family issues between the Nutter-Devices and the Pulsifers—which gets the angel off on a very involved tangent about Romeo & Juliet, and how Crowley had gone and made Hamlet ever so popular just because he’d asked him to. 

Some time into the second movie, Anathema leans towards Aziraphale with a lowered voice and asks, "So, I have a question. Had _you_ ever been with anyone before you and he . . . ?” She waves vaguely in Crowley’s direction. “You know.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale blinks and hastily swallows the bite of deviled egg he’d been savoring. “ _Oh_.” He frowns, noticing when Crowley’s head suddenly whips around. Newt isn’t looking, but it’s obvious from her posture that she’s paying attention too. “Young lady, a gentleman never kisses and tells!”

“Ha, that sounds like a yes to me.” She reaches across the couch to tap her girlfriend on the shoulder. “Ten quid, pay up.”

Newt groans. “I’ll get my purse.”

Aziraphale feels his face flush. His eyes meet the round lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses, brows arching high over them in curiosity as if to say, _Oh? Who?_

He sends back a sheepish, entreating look of, _Not in front of the humans, dear_. 

As always, Crowley juts out his jaw a bit as if determined to do exactly the opposite of what he’s been asked . . . and then does it anyway, the soft touch. 

Aziraphale sits back and sips his champagne, miraculously still sparkling despite how long he’s been nursing it. His face still feels warm, but the rest of him does too and it’s not because of the alcohol. Trysts with humans weren’t much of an issue between them—present company included. It would just be another thing for them to share with each other. There would be time enough for that, as well as giving the flat a proper _christening_ , so to speak, after the guests had left. 

They have all the time in the world.


	9. Popcorn French Toast Casserole Recipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I haven't tested this, and might turn out a bit more of a bread pudding than french toast. I google-fu'd it together and, with a little help from D20Owlbear, I think it should turn out real nice. 
> 
> If you try it, leave a comment, let me know how it goes!

Casserole Ingredients:

  * 4oz (1 stick) of butter, melted
  * 6 slices of crusty sourdough bread, stale, torn into chunks (about 6 cups)
  * 4 whole eggs
  * 2 cups whole milk or heavy cream
  * ½ cup maple syrup
  * 2 tbsp vanilla extract
  * ¼ tsp salt
  * 2 tsp ground cinnamon
  * ⅛ tsp ground cardamom
  * A dash of ground nutmeg



Popcorn Topping Ingredients:

  * Cooking Spray or butter
  * 8 cups popcorn (popped without butter, oil, or salt)
  * ½ cup maple syrup
  * 1½ tbsp butter
  * A dash of salt
  * ½ tsp cinnamon
  * ⅛ tsp ground cardamom
  * A dash of ground nutmeg



Casserole Directions: 

  1. Pour ½ half of the melted butter into the casserole dish. Grease the entire dish thoroughly, sides included, then add the bread chunks.
  2. In a bowl, whisk the eggs. Then add milk, cream, maple syrup, vanilla extract, salt, and spices. 
  3. Once combined, pour over the bread in the casserole dish. Use a fork to gently stir until the bread is coated.
  4. Cover the casserole and store in the fridge until you need it. Overnight is best.



Popcorn Topping Directions:

  1. Grease a large mixing bowl with cooking spray or butter. Place popcorn in the bowl.
  2. In a saucepan, combine the maple syrup, butter, salt, and spices over medium heat. Bring to a boil, stirring only until combined. 
  3. Cook without stirring for 2 minutes.
  4. Pour syrup mixture over popcorn in a steady stream, stirring to coat, making sure to get all of the flavorful brown bits from the bottom of the pan, and toss well.
  5. Set aside. 



Baking the Casserole:

  1. When ready to bake, preheat the oven to 350º.
  2. Bake for 30-45 minutes. The longer you bake, the crispier the casserole will become.
  3. Remove from the oven and sprinkle the popcorn topping over the casserole. Bake for another 15 minutes.
  4. Enjoy!




End file.
